


Jorge and Aleix make a Christmas Cake

by Always_Dreaming



Category: MotoGP RPF, Motorcycling RPF
Genre: Baking, Cake, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Cooking, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 14:33:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8671222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Always_Dreaming/pseuds/Always_Dreaming
Summary: The Espargaro family's English relatives are coming to stay for Christmas so Pol bets Aleix and Jorge that they can’t make a fancy traditional English Christmas cake for them. And of course, these two can never resist a competition, even if making this cake is very ambitious for two non-cooks. If they are anything like me making a cake, it will be a disaster…





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [F1_rabbit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/F1_rabbit/gifts), [hgleiser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hgleiser/gifts).



“So, what do we do first?” asked Jorge, tapping a spoon impatiently on the kitchen worktop, trying to avoid banging the noses of the beagles Pippa and Zuki, who kept jumping up to steal any food on offer. He was staying at Aleix’s house for Christmas, which was still four weeks away, but Aleix’s mother had told them they must make the cake early so the flavour would mature properly.

Aleix was reading the beloved old Espargaro family cookery book. The pages had faded into a warm golden colour—many were creased and written on, some had bits of paper between them marking favourite recipes while spots of cooking oil or alcohol decorated others. “It says, _cream the butter and sugar in a mixing bowl,_ ”

“What does that mean? Add cream to the butter and sugar, no?”

“I don’t think so. I think it means you have to beat it all ‘til its soft.”

“Well if anyone’s good at beating, it’s you.” Jorge ducked to avoid the tea towel thrown at him.

“Shush! You can weigh out the flour, I want two hundred and twenty-five grams. Then sieve it into a bowl with the salt, mixed spice and cinnamon.”

Jorge got on with his task, smiling to himself.

Aleix cut two hundred grams of butter from the tub and put it in another bowl, then sighed. “No, you have to _sieve_ it, Jorge. Don’t just tip it in like that.”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because…we want to make the cake properly, not mess it up. We can’t let Pol win the bet!” He looked round the kitchen. “Hm…sugar?”

“Yes, honey?”

“No, I mean I need sugar now.” He chuckled. “Also treacle, marmalade and vanilla essence.”

“Are those your other boyfriends? Shall I call them?”

“Shut up! I need two hundred grams of sugar. Where did you put the packet?”

“Me? I dunno. Right, that’s the flour and stuff mixed in. Now what?”

“Did we even buy any sugar?”

“I hope so!” Jorge frowned. “A cake would taste bad without sugar, no?”

“Ah there it is, on top of the fridge, look. Pass it to me, please.”

Jorge picked it up and bowled it over to him, overarm, and Aleix only just caught it with the tips of his fingers, almost tripping over Zuki in the process. “I said _pass_ it, not throw it.”

Jorge smirked. “What shall I do now?”

“You can—er—” Aleix peered at the cookery book. “Grease a round eight-inch cake tin. I know we’ve got that, it’s in the cupboard on the right of the cooker. _Right_ , I said. You’re looking in the left.”

“Oh yes. What shall I grease it with?”

“Something that isn’t engine oil.” Aleix tried to look innocent as he mixed the sugar and butter together.

Jorge glared at him. “I’m not _that_ stupid.” 

“Er…cooking oil, then? Or butter?”

“Butter.” Jorge spooned a large chunk out of the tub and slathered it on the inside of the tin with his fingers.

Meanwhile, Aleix pulled the bowl of flour and spice mixture in front of himself. “I need four eggs for this, can you get them?”

“I’m on it!” Jorge bounded over to the fridge, picked out the eggs, then galloped back to the table, both dogs cavorting around his feet, yapping with excitement. He chucked the eggs into the bowl, where they landed on the soft mound of flour, sending an eruption of it up into Aleix’s face. His whole face turned chalk white, with flour nestled in his eyebrows and hair as well. He looked like Jack Frost.

“You’re meant to break and whisk them first, you idiot!” As Aleix spoke, gusts of flour puffed out of his mouth like smoke. Jorge laughed so hard he got an ache in his stomach and doubled over, then Pippa licked his face which made him laugh even more. Aleix frowned, then threw a handful of flour at him, which turned his giggles into coughs. He stepped forward threateningly but Aleix held up his hand.

“No. We can play afterwards. We have to make the cake first,” he said smugly. “Here’s the eggs, can you break and whisk them, _as you were supposed to in the first place_?” He handed over the flour covered ovals and Jorge, muttering darkly to himself, broke them into a bowl and mixed them violently with the hand whisk. Stray egg splattered onto the floor and the dogs rushed to lick it all up, getting sticky muzzles.

At last he finished, so Aleix, still with a flour covered face, tipped the whisked eggs slowly into the butter mixture. “What’s the next bit?” he asked.

“It says _fold the flour into the mixture, then add the dried fruit, mixed peel, glace cherries and almonds._ Jesus! This cake’s going to be as heavy as lead, no?”

“What does it mean, _fold in the flour?_ Can’t I just mix it normally?”

“How should I know?”

“You’re a lot of help, Jorge! Come and tip it in for me. _Slowly_ this time!”

Jorge laughed evilly. “I might. Or I might just throw it so you get even whiter.”

“Do that and I’ll eat all the cake and leave you none. You’ll have to eat dry bread at Christmas.”

“Ohhhh. You’re so greedy and mean.” He poured a little bit of flour into the bowl at a time while Aleix stirred it carefully.

“What was that movie, where the man sat behind the girl and helped her make a pot on a potter’s wheel?” asked Jorge. “I’ll do that, I’ll—” 

“But don’t start singing,” interrupted Aleix. “The dogs haven’t recovered from the last time you were cooking and singing.”

“No, they loved it. They were joining in, they—” 

“They were howling, you mean. Howling in terror.”

“No, they weren’t. They know good singing. It was _you_ not appreciating my talent.” He stood behind Aleix and helped him stir the cake mixture. _Helped_ was perhaps not the correct word…

“Get off, you’re making it worse,” giggled Aleix. “Half of its going out of the bowl.” Pippa and Zuki scurried around catching all the flying cake mixture from Jorge’s violent stirring, their tails slapping the cooks’ legs.

“Make me stir slower then.”

Aleix fought him over the spoon, then triumphantly won and reduced the stirring speed to virtually zero. Jorge sighed and tutted in his ear. 

“If you’re bored, you can weigh out the dried fruit, mixed peel, glace cherries and the almonds and mix them up.” Aleix smiled as if he hadn’t noticed his fellow cook’s annoyance.

Jorge grabbed the Espargaro cookery book to read the amounts for each item. He measured each one precisely on the scales, then stirred them together in another bowl. Without waiting for an instruction, he tipped the mixture into Aleix’s bowl with a flourish. “Now you can stir faster,” he said excitedly.

“Why are you rushing me? Cooking takes time.” Aleix was still stirring at a snail’s pace, laughing at him.

“It’s boring. I want to get to the _bake cake for three hours_ bit.”

“Three hours? Where does it say that?”

Jorge sighed. “You didn’t read the recipe properly, did you. You are a bad cook, no?”

Aleix rolled his eyes and finished stirring all the ingredients together. “Now it’s ready, you can stop nagging me.” He put the cake mixture in the greased tin, then Jorge slammed it into the oven and set the timer. Zuki and Pippa peered through the oven door, then sat down on guard in front of it.

“What shall we do for the next three hours?” Jorge waggled his eyebrows.

“Well I need to wash this flour out of my hair, so maybe a shower?”

“Just what I was thinking.” They hastened out of the kitchen.

***

Three hours later, they returned with wet hair and bare feet. 

“Let’s see how it’s turned out!” Aleix stepped excitedly to the oven and flung open the door. “Ta da!” The two beagles peered inside too, sniffing loudly.

“Er…it’s not cooked.”

“What—what happened?”

“Oh. We forgot to switch the oven on…”

They looked glumly at each other.

“Well, you know what this means!” Jorge exclaimed. “Three more hours of playtime.” He turned the oven knob to the right temperature and Aleix grinned.

***

Another three hours later, it was dark and the couple returned to the kitchen. As they arrived, Zuki and Pippa leapt up and twirled in greedy circles, drooling, their claws clicking on the tiled floor.

“Is it cooked? Is it ready?” Aleix bounced up and down in the doorway while Jorge opened the oven. 

The gust of hot fruit steam whooshing out into his face took his breath away. “Yes,” he choked. “Get the gloves.”

Aleix did so, then whisked the delicious smelling browned cake out of the oven onto a plate, nearly tripping over the dogs whining round his feet. “Now we get to the really exciting part.”

“What, do we eat it?”

“No, you idiot. It’s not Christmas yet. We have to make holes in the cake and pour brandy into it.”

“Now you’re talking!” Jorge leapt across the kitchen and grabbed the brandy bottle. He jabbed a knife into the cake about ten times, and poured the alcohol into the holes, the bottle glugging as the air filled it.

Aleix was laughing as he watched. “Er, Jorge…it says _once the cake has cooled, pour three to four tablespoons into it_ …Not half a bottle.”

“Oh! Oh well. We won’t tell people. Maybe everyone will get drunk—that would be fun, no?”

They giggled mischievously.

“We still need to decorate it.” Aleix flipped through the cookery book, searching for an icing recipe.

“Do we? Right now? It’s taken all day so far. Let’s get some sleep and decorate it tomorrow.”

Aleix nodded, so they put a large bowl on top of the cake to protect it from marauding dogs and chased each other upstairs, leaving the kitchen looking like Santa’s workshop. Drifts of flour lay everywhere like snow, with human and canine footprints making pretty patterns all over the previously clean tiled floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear F1_Rabbit, I know this isn't your favourite pair but its all I've got at the moment. Hope it makes you laugh!
> 
> I wrote this in the summer when I was inspired but saved it til Christmas and now its nearly time as I'm going Christmas shopping this afternoon!


End file.
